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doing, sir. We have put our shoulders to the wheel, Mr. Car-
stone, and the wheel is going round.’
‘Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next
four or five accursed months?’ exclaims the young man, ris-
ing from his chair and walking about the room.
‘Mr. C.,’ returns Vholes, following him close with his
eyes wherever he goes, ‘your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry
for it on your account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to
chafe so much, not to be so impetuous, not to wear yourself
out so. You should have more patience. You should sustain
yourself better.’
‘I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes?’ says Rich-
ard, sitting down again with an impatient laugh and beating
the devil’s tattoo with his boot on the patternless carpet.
‘Sir,’ returns Vholes, always looking at the client as if he
were making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well
as with his professional appetite. ‘Sir,’ returns Vholes with
his inward manner of speech and his bloodless quietude, ‘I
should not have had the presumption to propose myself as
a model for your imitation or any man’s. Let me but leave
the good name to my three daughters, and that is enough
for me; I am not a self-seeker. But since you mention me so
pointedly, I will acknowledge that I should like to impart
to you a little of my—come, sir, you are disposed to call it
insensibility, and I am sure I have no objection—say insen-
sibility—a little of my insensibility.’
‘Mr. Vholes,’ explains the client, somewhat abashed, ‘I
had no intention to accuse you of insensibility.’
‘I think you had, sir, without knowing it,’ returns the

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